Without a word Anderson walks over and sits on the bench. His eyes take on a faraway look. He then looks down and begins to play, the Adagio from Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. Each note breaks through my emotional barriers. His playing is wondrous. My eyes fill with tears. I hear Beethoven, but I see John, I see Mary, I see Redbeard, I see the Woman, I see everything I have loved and or lost. I want to tell him to stop, but I am transfixed by the beauty and pain of the music. I am mute, rendered powerless, unable to disarm him with sarcasm or cruelty. I want to shout that he is the cruel one for making me feel, but I cannot. I have allowed him to get under my skin, the fly in the genius of my ointment.
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